As it turned out, all the ships set out for the St. Lawrence were booked until the following week. Therefore, Gaston returned to the city with a heavy heart. He bid Danielle Delamer a fond farewell; she gave him the address of her employer, gathered her last things, and boarded the ship. The author booked passage to Canada for the next Thursday, resigned to pack his own things and endure the voyage.

Gaston stared out of his train car window at the passing scenery, then turned to writing in his notebook.

I now possess the address of a Professor Edmond Lequesne, who lives in a district of Montréal called Westmount. There, I will find Mlle Delamer, and, hopefully something important to this case.

He paused, his pen poised above the paper, before continuing in a less-formal hand.

I must confess, here, on these pages, that this story has captivated my imagination. I had gathered pertinent information all indicating that a flesh-and-blood man lived beneath the Paris Opera, and was the so-called "villain" in the tragedy of the theatre. (Though, of course, one must be wary of the definition of evil) However, I can find no surviving eyewitnesses, although the affair did not occur too long ago. This troubles me. There is an unspoken code of silence, it seems. So what could have happened to make the opera house burst into flames, that no one will speak of? I now recall an aged newspaper review of the Opera's performance of Chalumeau's Hannibal. It mentioned specifically a Mlle Christine Daaé, who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, with a most glorious voice. The article mentioned in particular her sincerity, charm, and triumph in the Act III aria, "Think of Me." I have heard this aria, and find the lyrics very poignant, in regards to Mlle O.G.

Think of the things we'll never do;
There will never be a day when I won't think of you.

Transcribing that phrase just brought a chill up my spine; it is not cold in the car tonight. I can almost hear her voice ringing in my ears, forming those words.

Flowers fade, the fruits of summer fade;
They have their seasons,
So do we.
But please promise me that sometimes
You will think of me.

It seems quite unreal, my experiences of the past week, but they are undeniable. I have seen her; can I ever forget that sight? Her sorrow and hopelessness are forever etched into my memory. And thus it begs the question: Who is -

Gaston stopped, and crossed the verb out.

Who was this Angel of Music she spoke of...she pleaded, begged for. These were the mannerisms of a rejected lover! Poe attributed this title to the Angel Israfel, but surely she would not condemn her soul to an eternity of longing for a fictitious character out of a poem. Would she?

The question bothers me. Added now to Mlle Delamer's story; madness! There are undeniable connexions that cause me to find truth in her mother's account. The mirror, the singing, the ban on roses in the household. These things are connexions of the Ghost to the story, which, at the moment, seems to be a great mystery, a labyrinth.

I shudder as I think of her death. No wonder Mlle Delamer was reluctant to tell me! What a horrible way to end a life! And such a short one! She couldn't have had twenty years. And to loathe life enough to endure such pain? "I have no hopes to be saved," she said. Such despair. How I pity the Opera Ghost!

Gaston wearily set down his pen, and shut his eyes.

The wind outside seemed to sing in a soft woman's voice, Remember me, once in a while...please promise me you'll try...